Slugfest

Twenty-five

The doorman helped Guy to his feet. He no longer treated me as if I were the First Lady but possibly the deranged ex-lover of the man who was still shaking off a nasty blow to the temple.

“You like the red dress, hunh?” I was still seething with the thought that Guy or one of his flunkies had been spying on me, and I was getting ready to deliver the coup de grâce directly to his knees with my sensibly clad tight foot. He saw it coming and sidestepped the blow.

“Wait a minute. I’m sorry! The shoes are fine. It’s an interesting … look.”

A suitcase to the head was clearly not the response Guy Anzalone expected to what he thought was a compliment. He seemed sincere. Could I have been wrong? I held up on my swing.

He continued rubbing the side of his head. “Last time I make any comment about a woman’s shoes,” he muttered.

The doorman quietly asked Guy if he “should call someone,” probably meaning the police. I closed my eyes and willed him to say no. Not three times in one night. I was starting to feel like a streetwalker rounded up every couple of hours. This couldn’t be happening.

“Not if the lady agrees to have a drink with me to explain what just happened.” I had given more statements that night than a presidential press secretary. I looked at my watch. In twenty-three minutes the day would be over and I could start fresh all over again.

I nodded and let him lead me to a booth not far from where we’d had drinks with Connie earlier this evening.

“I’m surprised you’re still here. Where’s your wife?” I asked, once we sat down.

“Now, that’s a mood killer. I was hoping you’d start with something like Gee, Guy, I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else or Thank you, I’m glad you like the dress.” He called the waiter over. I ordered a light beer and he asked for a single malt. “No champagne?” he asked, when the waiter left.

“I’ve had a rough day. I don’t feel very celebratory. So where is Connie?”

“She’s upstairs, trying on outfits for tomorrow. There’s a club I like, near the river. Gentlemen’s club. I had a few drinks there and then came back here to tuck Connie in. I got an early appointment in Brooklyn, so I’m not staying in Manhattan tonight.” He eyed me from top to bottom, and even without his saying it, I could tell he really did like the red dress. Someone once told me all women should own one and I was considering a future purchase. “I could change my mind and stay in town if I had a compelling reason to do so.”

Having just “tucked his wife in,” the man had stamina.

“Wanna tell me why you gave me the love tap?”

Unless Guy was a better actor than Ben Kingsley, he genuinely didn’t know about the anonymous call to Lucy’s. In fact, he was curious when I told him about it.

“What exactly did the caller say? His specific words.” For the third time that night I repeated what had happened.

“Why are you so interested?” I asked. I thought about Fat Frank and Cookie. Was watching me part of their assignment in looking after Mrs. Anzalone? “Did you have me followed?”

“Why would I do that?”

That was not a satisfactory answer. He finished his drink and the waiter hovered. I was suddenly conscious of not having eaten dinner and my growling stomach gave me away, but the hotel’s kitchen was closed. Guy offered to take me to Mulberry Street to a place he claimed made the best gnocchi in the city, but I didn’t see myself explaining to Connie the next day how I happened to go out for a midnight snack with her husband who should have been on his way to Brooklyn. I declined and continued plowing through the nuts.

“So did you?”

“Have you followed? That’s ridiculous. You’re a nice girl. Woman. Bit of a violent streak, but that’s not a deal breaker.” He was still flirting, but it was a soft sell. Not enough to make me nervous.

“So what does the Tumbled Stone King do when he’s not tumbling stone?” I asked.

He had other interests and investments, as Connie had said, but he was vague and that contributed to the feeling that some of what Guy Anzalone did wasn’t on the up-and-up.

After ninety minutes, half a beer, and two bowls of nuts, Guy convinced me that he and no one in his employ had called Lucy’s, and I eventually apologized for braining him with my suitcase. The weapon in question, sitting on the floor next to our table, reminded me I still hadn’t checked in.

“Listen, I’m exhausted. I am extremely sorry for striking you with my bag. As bizarre as this sounds, I have a date to go shopping with your wife tomorrow, so I really should get to bed. Alone.” That got a rise out of the couple at the next table who clearly found our conversation more interesting than their own.

“You sure I can’t tuck you in, too?”

By this time I didn’t even think he was serious. It seemed to be the only way he knew to speak to a woman. I stood up to leave and had to pull down the hem of the red dress, which had ridden up to midthigh. “Let me call Connie. If she says yes, I’ll go.” I fished around in my jacket pocket looking for my cell, even though I knew I wouldn’t be making the call.

“All right, forget it. Go upstairs. Besides, if you stay any longer I might wind up owning another weirdo garden ornament.”

“They’re not garden ornaments. They’re art. And it’s an investment. Yours is going to appreciate dramatically.”

“Yeah, yeah, like souvenir coins and Lladro and all that other crap she has around the house. I get it.”

We still hadn’t discussed delivery. I figured since it involved manly issues, like trucks and shipping, it would be his domain and not hers.

“Give me your cell number,” I said, “that way we can work out the shipping details.”

He hemmed and hawed and deferred to his wife, which was a first in my limited experience with this couple.

“You don’t need to call me. And if I want to talk to you, we know how to reach you.”

Did they? I didn’t remember giving either of them my number. And I did remember J. C’s earlier advice—“Watch your back.” And I felt Guy Anzalone watching it, too, as I walked away.